Chapter Fifty-Nine
Torin
Frog-marched under janissary escort to the zindan beneath the palace was not how I envisioned returning home.
All previous hope of recognition was dashed the farther we wound through the streets of Iluul.
My guard was quiet, watchful, tense in a way that made me believe they expected me to attempt escape at any point during our journey.
While I once knew these streets better than anyone else, it had been nearly two decades since I’d left Iluul to follow Matamuri on her quest for vengeance.
Judging by the massive changes in my father’s small council, I didn’t trust the city to look the same as when I’d left.
Besides, I felt no need to risk death or dismemberment by the entirely capable janissaries.
While this wasn’t the ideal way to re-enter the palace, at least I was heading in the correct direction.
Once inside the zindan, it’d be easier to escape my cell and traverse through the palace via the passageways hidden within the walls.
So, instead of plotting ways to circumvent my guards, I simply basked in my return home.
The sounds of merchants haggling with customers, braying donkeys, and playing children echoed through the streets while the scents of herbs and spices mixed with meat fat sizzling over an open flame.
More than once, I closed my eyes and let my other senses take over, enjoying the sense of nostalgia that tickled my consciousness.
What would it have been like if I had never left? Would I appreciate the culture in the same way, or would it have lost its luster as I grew older and more jaded? Would I have married a merchant’s or vizier’s daughter? Produced heirs?
The untold future sat heavy in my gut as I wrestled with the thoughts of the unknown and memories of the past, wondering if the palace’s front courtyard was still home to merchants hawking wares or if the tavern I’d often visited disguised as Cael still served customers.
Despite my deep memories of this place, the trek to the palace was longer than I recalled, the streets undulating with the growing steepness as we marched up the side of the cliff that overlooked the sea.
The zindan was built beneath the palace, deep within the cliff itself; each of the cells was reinforced with sandstone blocks, creating a window to the outside that both offered fresh air and the temptation of escape.
Over the centuries, many tried to climb out of the cell by way of the window, thinking to scale down the cliff face, only to be immediately swept away by the intense winds that whistled along the cliff wall.
Luckily for me, I commanded Air. Even with the cuffs attached to my wrists, I had little doubt that I’d be able to temper the wind enough to make the climb up less perilous.
My breath came in deep gasps, and sweat beaded against my brow and back, saturating my shirt and causing my hair to stick to my forehead from the hot and humid air.
While my work in the Northern Territories was strenuous and demanding, nothing—short of living here—could have prepared me for this hike.
The sandstone streets abruptly changed to paved stone roads as we neared the palace.
At some point in our journey, I stopped gawking at the bustle of activity and started watching my feet, lest I trip over a loose stone or uneven patch of road.
But, as the ground beneath me shifted, I pulled my gaze up, peering over the shoulders of the two janissaries in front of me to see the entrance to what was once my home.
The palace was carved into a cliff that overlooked the rest of Iluul and, despite the fact that it was constructed solely from the beige-hued sandstone that was prevalent in the Southern Territories, the interior of the palace was anything but rocky.
Huge, sweeping buttresses supported tall cathedral ceilings that stretched to reach the gods themselves.
The walls were sanded thousands of times until the rock was smooth to the touch.
Some were painted, while others were plastered with intricate mosaic detailing.
That same attention to detail was seen on the floors throughout the palace—delicate patterns of blue, white, and gold swooped and swirled, creating a vibrant and mesmerizing pattern that almost resembled the crystalline waters that surrounded our inlet.
A pang of longing shot through me when I realized that the incredible building that held so many fond memories was no more my home than a tavern down the street.
It housed the rulers of the region, ones I needed to petition for assistance in the war against the gods, and I needed to remember to show the viziers and father the type of respect that their positions warranted.
Approaching this situation with overfamiliarity would not help my cause.
Especially after missing for two decades, I thought wryly.
Instead of battling the crowd of merchants outside the main gates of the palace, the janissaries took a sharp right, leading me down a small, nondescript alley before halting outside an equally plain door.
I breathed heavily, wiping at my dripping forehead with my shoulder, and shook out the tension in my legs and arms. My muscles jumped and twitched, and I stole surreptitious glances at the janissaries surrounding me.
Aside from the sweat that glistened on their exposed skin, they looked like they were fresh for the morning.
“How are you not all wheezing right now?” I muttered half to myself, certainly not expecting a response.
To my shock, the guard to my left twitched his lips in wry amusement before shooting me a mirthful glance out the side of his eye. “We train every day for years in order to be selected for these positions. Surely you remember the janissary training you underwent in your formative years?”
I balked, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water at the insinuation that not only did the janissary recognize me, he remembered intimate details of my childhood.
Before I could respond, the door flung open, exposing a room too dark to fully ascertain the interior.
“In,” the janissary behind me grunted, gently pushing me forward to follow the two other escorts into the space. Once all five of us were inside, the door closed, sheathing us in near darkness.
I had a moment to relish in the feeling of shade and shelter but was quickly jostled again once one of my escorts produced a Mage Orb.
On we walked through increasingly dark, yet blessedly cool tunnels as we made our way through the cliffs under the palace to the zindan below.
I didn’t try to engage the janissaries in any further discourse, and the only sounds that followed us through the tunnels were those of my slapping boots and harsh breaths. Embarrassingly, I started counting my steps, anything to keep my mind off the physical exertion.
The air turned sharp and cool, the humidity evaporating almost completely the further we descended, and the sweat dried against my skin until I was nearly shaking from the chill.
Time was an arbitrary concept in the dark and monotonous tunnels, and what felt like hours later, we finally stopped for a second time. This door was much larger and reinforced with steel in addition to an orb that recognized magical signatures for entry.
If only I’d stayed long enough, that orb would have been programmed to my magic and would have unlocked in my presence.
I sighed at the unfortunate situation.
This door swung open with a bang, the salt-tinged wind blowing through the large windows in each cell of the zindan. I kept my head down, gaze averted, as I was led to an empty cell and pushed inside with much more care than I expected.
I closed my eyes, pulling deep breaths of briny air that smelled like my childhood, before casting a quick glance over my shoulder at the sound of a traditional lock grinding.
“Guards rotate shortly. The exiting guard will walk this hall before switching places with a new guard,” he mumbled just loud enough for me to hear over the crashing waves below.
I raised an eyebrow. “And why would you tell me this?”
The janissary smiled as he tapped the bars of my cell lightly.
“Think it’s about time we had a prisoner attempt escape, don’t you, Torin?”
My mouth gaped at his admission, but the janissary simply winked before trailing after the others, leaving me blinking rapidly in the solitary cell.
True to the janissary’s word, the guard on duty walked by my block of cells a few minutes later.
The clomping of his boots and off-tune whistle jolted me from my thoughts, and I immediately sprang to action once his back was turned.
I approached the large window and pulled hard on my Air Magic, relieved when more than a trickle responded to my call.
In quick fashion, I climbed onto the sill before draping my legs outside, relishing in the way the fevered wind pulled at my hair and clothes.
With a “whoop” I was certain could be heard for miles, I pushed off the windowsill and let myself fall for three terrifying heartbeats before conjuring a pocket of air beneath my feet.
With a laugh that made me feel years younger, I shot upward, propelled by the gusts of air in my hands.
Floating on the breeze for a few moments, I relished in the freedom that oozed into my pores, at the lack of responsibility I felt in this moment, in the way the sun warmed my face.
All too soon, the burden of responsibility came crashing back down, my limbs growing heavy with both the proverbial weight and use of my magic under duress of the cuffs. I turned my back on the sun, gazing at the palace and seeking my father’s balcony.
It was easy to spot as it was the only one to face the sea from this side of the cliff. I pulled harder on my Air Magic, enough to propel me forward so I landed hard on my father’s exposed balcony.
My knee connected with solid sandstone, and I cursed lowly at the inevitable bruise that would follow.
Quiet as a mouse, I stood from my crouch and softly padded into my father’s room, hoping to surprise him with my visit.
That plan was instantly squashed as his warm, familiar voice floated through the space with the pang of home.
“Hello, my son.”